


Friday night I crashed your party

by alemara



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:38:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemara/pseuds/alemara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the following prompt on Tumblr:</p><p>  <i>    Imagine Person A of your OTP winning Person B a giant teddy bear from a carnival game.</i></p><p>So maybe I cheated and made Person A, B, and C of the adorable Williams-McGarrett family unit. Creative license?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday night I crashed your party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanderlustlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/gifts).



Danny knows they’re doomed from the second Grace sees that teddy bear.

It’s got to be at least as big as she is; the kind of floppy, soft, innocent-faced stuffed animal inexplicably attractive to small children the world over, and it reminds him of the erstwhile pink bunny rabbit, now (hopefully) happily ( _hopefully_ ) ensconced in its adoptive home, after the introduction of Mr. Hoppy and the pink rabbit’s subsequent clandestine removal to the back seat.

(Whatever; he found her a _dog_. A dog is to a bunny as a Corvette is to a Matchbox car, pet-wise, so by his reckoning, he still comes out ahead.)

Regardless.  Dog and Mr. Hoppy and new baby brother notwithstanding, Grace is not the sort of girl to pass up on the chance to cart around a stuffed animal bigger than most of the kids in her class, and Danny’s expecting the high-pitched “Danno, _look!_ ” before it even comes.

Steve’s not so lucky, and for a selfish moment, Danny allows himself some amusement at the way Steve shifts into sudden ready tension, shoulders a thrill of set muscle, hand falling to a hip.  That hip, fortunately, lacks firearms of any kind, because no one should bring an armed Steve McGarrett to a crowded area full of flashing lights and sudden loud noises, okay, that’s just common sense.  Danny does not need any PTSD to kick in at the fairgrounds -- incident reports do a cheerful hula through his imagination, splattered with red ink and sternly worded reprimands, because not even he would be able to cover up the kind of damage Steve could manage with the ring toss _alone_ , and anyway they’re off duty, so Steve’s gun is at home, though Steve has been extremely shifty about the contents of his cargo pockets and won’t let Danny check them for knives or incendiaries.

He’s just hoping even Steve is aware that grenades on a crowded fairground are probably a bad idea.

“I see it,” he says, steering them over to the booth, and, great, the barker is the kind of carny that seems to have sprung, fully-formed, from a Rogers and Hammerstein musical.  Danny half-expects to see a straw boater and striped cane appear as the man gives them a well-greased used-car salesman smile, and, seriously, if he says _step right up, folks_ , Danny will probably deck him.  He's already feeling edgy and keeps tamping down on his aggravation for Grace's sake, but he doesn’t like fairs.  They’re full of jostling people and pimply teenage couples and rickety rides that make him seriously consider leaning a little on NAARSO, because if he’s going to be on an elite task force, he should absolutely get to use that elite task force’s reputation in order the make shady carnival ride operators extremely nervous.  He hates the ever-present, faintly rancid scent of sweat and fryer oil, the way his fingers get sticky from cotton candy and caramel popcorn; he hates the prices.  He hates the games, the rides, the way the temperature seems to plummet as soon as the sun sets.

Grace loves it all.

Funnily enough, he suspects Steve’s enjoying himself, too, but he doesn’t really want to think about the likely last time Steve was at a fair like this, so he just lets the two of them lead him around and is grateful that at least Steve is taking on chaperone duty for all the rides that spin really fast and/or turn upside down, which is either really nice of him or the kind of adrenaline addiction that should make Danny nervous but that he now views with a sort of indifferent exasperation.

Maybe he’s just gotten used to it.

Anyway, the point is, they’re at the fair, because Grace wanted to go, and now Grace is practically jittering at his side as she stares up at the fluffy bear.  It nods gently in the wind, like it's beckoning them.  It’s pink.

They never stood a chance.

Next to him, Steve glances consideringly up at the booth ceiling, then along the sides.  It’s a strangely familiar tic, and Danny struggles to place it, until Steve reaches out to test the counter, rattling it against the nails and screws holding the little shack together, and it all slots into place.

“No,” he says, and Steve turns with a wounded look.

“I wasn’t--”

“No,” Danny repeats, more firmly.  “No, you cannot case the booth.  No, you should not be testing for structural integrity.  This is a _fair_.  There is no need for extreme force or imaginative uses of fulcrums and levers.  You could probably knock this thing over if you tripped and fell into it, so cut it out.”

Steve looks indignant and opens his mouth to argue, but Danny does not have time to explain the niceties of not using intimidation techniques on admittedly annoying but presumably innocent barkers and their method of livelihood, so he turns away to study the game, instead.  It appears to be your typical shooter game: knock the targets off the shelves, win a prize.

“I want to play,” Grace announces, and Danny shrugs, hands over some bills, and the grinning barker pushes over a plastic air-rifle of the type that shoots ping-pong balls.  Danny steps back, and Grace aims, squinting with careful concentration along the barrel.  

Next to him, Steve shifts, and Danny counts the seconds until he can’t help but -- “Keep both eyes open, Gracie,” Steve says, and there it is.  When Danny glances at him, he sees Steve focused intently on the gun, on Grace’s small form.  “Remember to just squeeze, as you breathe out.”

“Have you been giving my daughter shooting lessons?” Danny asks, bewildered, but just then Grace straightens her shoulders, aims, squeezes the trigger, just like Steve said.

And misses.  By a mile.

She lowers the rifle with a frown folding across her forehead, and looks down at the barrel, before looking at the barker.  “This one is broken,” she says, and the man beams at her.

“You’re just not used to it.  Try again, you get four more shots.”

Grace studies him for a second, then turns to look at Steve.  “Uncle Steve, this one is broken.  How do I fix it?”

Of course it’s broken.  All of these guns are broken, and Danny should absolutely not feel a swell of pride that his little girl can tell that this rifle is put together so shoddily that the sight has nothing to do with where the ping-pong ball will eventually end up, but instead of pointing out that these things are all just a scam, Steve crouches next to Grace, checks the alignment of the barrel, sights along it, and hands it back before standing and apparently staring into the distance, which Danny is confused by until he realizes that Steve is checking the wind strength and direction, because this is what Danny’s life is, now.

“It’s pulling to the right,” Steve tells her.  “Adjust your aim about two inches to the left and up, that should fix it.”

“Will you please not turn my daughter into a sniper?” Danny starts, but just then Grace swings the rifle back to her shoulder, purses her lips, and fires.  The ball goes arcing perfectly, and bounces right off the target.

Danny can feel the sudden clutch of the atmosphere.  Temperature dropping, pressure rising, and Steve, previously indulgent and amused, is suddenly looming, a massive disapproving presence that this particular barker probably wasn’t expecting and should seriously consider just appeasing.  

“Those targets are weighted,” Steve accuses, and the man shrugs.  “She hit it dead center.”

Grace is looking up at them both with big hurt eyes, and, Christ, okay, there’s really no choice.  He steps up behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other jabbing in flat-fingered aggravation at the barker.  “You’re gonna swindle her out of a prize?  She won it fair and square, even with your shoddy gun and cheating.”

“Sorry,” the barker says.  “No knocking over the target, no prize.”  He leans down, ignoring Danny, and grins at Grace.  “Want to try your luck again, little lady?  Three chances left.”

Grace tips her head up to look at him, and, God, her eyes are getting glossy and her cheeks are turning red, and Danny seriously considers slapping his badge on the counter and seeing just how many misdemeanors Mr. Come One, Come All has on his record, but just then his vision is blocked by a sudden calm bulk, a flat expanse of navy blue cotton, as Steve pushes his way between them and the counter, taking the rifle from Grace as he does.

“Tell you what,” he says, and, oh, no, no, no, no, that’s a bad voice, it’s Steve at his most conversational, his most _reasonable_ , and that always means that screaming and explosions are just around the corner.  Danny, reflexively, pulls Grace a few steps back, as Steve smiles.  “How about I try?”

Danny knows that smile.  To anyone else, it would probably be disarming, but that’s only because nobody else ever seems to see the calm glint of insanity that makes that particular expression so inexplicably unnerving.

Steve’s still smiling as he pops the ping pong balls out of the gun; he’s smiling as he sets them on the counter.  He’s smiling as he ignores the barker’s sudden loss of confidence, the abrupt shift from sleazy grin to bemusement to concern as Steve reaches into a pocket and pulls out a Swiss Army knife.  By the time he unfolds the blade, Grace is staring and the barker is taking two quick steps away, which is as far as he can get while still behind the counter.  “What are you--” he starts, but Steve’s focused, picking up a ping-pong ball and setting the tip of the knife into the plastic, methodically twisting until a hole appears.   _Snick_ goes the blade back into the knife handle.  The barker twitches.

By the time Steve’s dropped to a crouch, reaching for a handful of sand, letting it run through his loose fist until he judges he has enough for whatever he’s using it for, the man’s found his voice again, and is complaining at length, about Steve wrecking his property and how he’ll call the cops, this guy is crazy, which, well.  Danny just lifts his shoulders, because he can empathize.

Steve’s not paying attention, though.  He’s filling the ping-pong ball with sand, weighing it carefully, then adding a little more before discarding the rest.  Down goes his hand into his pocket again, and the barker flinches, but Steve only comes out with a little gob of that gray sticky stuff they use to post notes to the wall.  Twisting off a tiny piece, he patches the hole, retrieves the rifle, and reloads with the weighted ball, before tucking it against his shoulder.  Danny has enough time to appreciate the ridiculousness of a Navy SEAL aiming with a plastic gun approximately the size of his forearm, before Steve fires and the target goes scattering off the shelf.

The whole operation must have taken about thirty seconds.

“Two shots left,” Steve muses, and leans to pick up one of the ping-pong balls, then rests his full weight on the counter.  It gives an alarming creak, and he smiles, beneficently, at the barker, who stares at him.

“You’re crazy,” the guys whispers, and Steve shrugs, turns to Grace.

“Which one do you want, kiddo?”

Grace’s eyes, Danny notes, are alight with hero-worship as she points to the bear, and he makes a mental note to try and check that, but it’s better than her crying, and it’s worth it to see the way the barker cringes back when Steve casually bounces the ping-pong ball off his forehead.  “That one,” he says, easily, and the man can’t move fast enough, grabs down the bear and holds it out with a shaking hand.

“Take it and get out of here,” he says, and Steve does, accepts the bear and gives the guy the kind of blinding smile that always makes Danny’s stomach feel like it’s been hollowed out and reworked into a tangled, pathetic ball of helpless affection, which only gets worse when Steve stoops down to present the bear to Grace.

“All yours,” he says, and Grace considers the bear with a solemn study, then reaches up to tug Steve down, fingers tiny in his big hand, and kiss his cheek, erasing the last vestiges of that wildcat grin and making Steve turn his big abashed eyes on Danny, making Grace do the same, and they both smile at him until he throws up his hands and laughs.

“All right,” he says, giving up, because he hates fairs and he hates cheaters and he hates the fact that they’ll all have stomachaches later, but he loves the two of them and that makes it all worthwhile.

“Who wants popcorn?”


End file.
